


Looking for Mr. Perfect

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock worries when Mary tells him about Molly's new friend.  Does he need to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking for Mr. Perfect

It was a Friday evening in late May when Sherlock Holmes exited the cab in front of the home of John and Mary Watson. It had become a habit, especially since the birth of the Watsons’ daughter, Claire, some three months previously, for the group of friends to gather here for takeaway food, conversation, and baby oogling. The detective, who previously would have never admitted to having a heart, or wallowing in sentiment of any kind, had seemingly given up on his unfeeling persona at the birth of the child. But Sherlock knew that this abdication had taken place long ago, when a certain pathologist had told him that she didn’t count, and he had to admit to himself just how much she did.

The detective gave a short rap on the front door, and entered without waiting for an answer. He thought that Mary should be a bit more particular about locking said door, but then, being a retired hit woman, perhaps her sense of personal danger was a bit lower than the average wife and mother.

“John! Mary! Where are you? And where’s my godchild?” Sherlock bellowed upon entering the sitting room and finding no one there.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, keep it down! We’re just putting Claire down for a nap…”

“Not until I see her, you don’t! Who knows what you people have done to her since I last saw her.” The detective shoved past the parents and into the nursery, reaching for the child in the cot. “Ah, she is a bit heavier. But well within normal range. Her diet seems to be sufficient…”

“Her diet, as you call it, consists entirely of breast milk, which I supply on a regular schedule…”

“Then we must be mindful of your diet, Mary. Are you eating your vegetables? Avoiding caffeine?”

“I will eat as many carrots as I can shove down my throat, Sherlock, but if you make a move on my coffee, I will shoot you. Again.”

“I suppose a little caffeine won’t hurt the child…”

“It will hurt the child a lot less than I will hurt you!” That being said, Mary Watson took the infant from Sherlock’s arms and placed her gently back in the cot, as she was dozing off once again. The three adults then adjourned to the sitting room.

John was the first to speak, as Sherlock removed his coat and scarf and settled into his customary chair. “We weren’t really expecting you tonight. I thought you said you would still be in Paris, at least until Sunday?”

“Finished up early, John. Twelve days was certainly long enough to devote to such a minor affair…”  
“I thought Mycroft said it was of the utmost importance?”

“A plot to destabilize the French franc, and undermine the euro, would be of utmost to my brother, John. But does it justify twelve days away from London and ,ah, my friends?”

“You mean Claire, don’t you?”

“Among others.” Sherlock smiled very slightly. “Why is the child napping at this hour, John? She’s usually the life of the party as these gatherings?”

“She’s getting her first tooth, and it’s really been awful. She’s been grumpy, and restless, and not sleeping…”

“Really, John, she’s an angel. How bad can it be?” Sherlock had barely gotten these words out when a godawful caterwaul emanated from the nursery. “Is that Mary?”

“No, mate, that’s the little angel. You don’t want to be here when Mary starts!”

The two men sat in silence as the crying continued, until John again spoke, “Mary will be out looking for the whiskey any second now,” and, true to his prediction, the blond woman, wailing infant in her arms, entered the room and headed for the liquor cabinet. 

“Mary, surely you’re not going to coat the child’s gums with alcohol. That’s just an old wives’ tale, not beneficial at all…” Sherlock sputtered as she grabbed the bottle.

“Not for her, you git!”, she poured herself a shot and threw it down her throat. “Better,” she said as she carried the infant back to her room.

The cries from the other room were slowly decreasing in intensity, and soon stopped entirely. Mary joined the men in the sitting room. “That was relatively easy tonight. But, make no mistake about it, she’ll be up again in a matter of hours. By the way, John, we need more whiskey…”

Sherlock found himself speaking in a much quieter voice than was his custom, so as not to re-awaken the sleeping demon. “So, where is Molly? I thought she would be here by now?”

John was prepared to answer, but his wife leaned forward to cut him off. “She won’t be here tonight, Sherlock. She wasn’t here last week, either. Claire rather missed seeing her godparents!”

“What do you mean, she wasn’t here? Where was she?”

“Where do you think she was on a Friday night, you git? A date. Some plastic surgeon she met at the hospital. Very handsome, she told me. Tall, blond, charming….”  
“Name?”, the detective inquired coldly.

“I don’t know if I should give you his name, Sherlock. Your track record with Molly’s gentlemen friends is not exemplary…”

“And how often has she seen him?”

“Oh, a few times, I think. Last Friday, Sunday afternoon, I think. And I believe he took her to lunch one day this week…” Mary smiled slyly at the man who now sat nervously on the edge of his seat. “So this would be the third, or even fourth date, depending of whether you count lunch...’

“And why is that significant, Mary?”

“Well, a lady, and Molly is certainly a lady, never goes beyond a kiss until the third or fourth date, at the earliest. Unless they’re really frustrated. Would you say Molly Hooper is really frustrated, Sherlock? How long has it been since you failed to run a man off, mate?”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, trying to appear relaxed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mary. I only want Molly to be happy, to find someone suitable, after all.”

“Well, Peter is certainly suitable, and certainly keen on Molly…”

Sherlock suddenly lurched out of his seat. “Well, perhaps I had better go for takeaway, as I am getting rather hungry, and you two hadn’t been expecting company. Chinese okay with everyone? I shall return with sustenance!” the detective headed for the door, turning to say, “It may take quite a while, this being Friday evening I imagine the places are crowded. And I might want to try this place a fair distance away…” He was still muttering as the door closed behind him.

“Shall I order a pizza?” John asked his wife. “You know he’s not going for takeaway, right? And why did you tell him that Molly wasn’t coming? She just said she would be a bit late, is all.”

“Yeah, but I want to hear the excuse he makes for ‘saving’ Molly from the clutches of Peter the Perfect. He’ll head to Molly’s, make an ass of himself, and they’ll come back here with Molly feeling smug and Sherlock taken down a peg…”

“What if Molly’s not at home, love? You don’t think him capable of tracking down this Peter character, and telling him to unhand his pathologist?”

“But Molly’s not with this Peter person. She just running a bit late.”

“You know that, and I know that. But the world’s only, and I might add, best, consulting detective, does not know that! And I, for one, believe that he is fully capable of locating one tall, blond, and charming plastic surgeon named Peter in the city of London on a Friday evening. My only concern is what will happen when he does!”

“I hadn’t really thought of that, I must say. This could get interesting, indeed,” Mary said as she went, once again, toward the liquor cabinet. “Care to join me?”

“I think I will, love, I think I will.”

Sherlock Holmes was in a rush. It was still relatively early in the evening, and there was a good chance this Peter Perfect the Plastic Surgeon had not yet picked up his Molly, so he headed directly to her flat. Receiving no answer to his perfunctory knock, the detective immediately entered to find the flat empty. He quickly checked the pathologist’s closet. Being familiar with her wardrobe, having spent considerable time trying to amuse himself during his visits by investigating, and criticizing, every portion of her life, he immediately noticed that all of her best dresses, what few she owned, were still hanging there. This is bad, he thought. She must have purchased a new dress for this date, in an effort to impress the man. Very not good. He sat himself down in front of the pathologist’s laptop to continue his investigation. First, he logged into the St. Bart’s site to find the full name of the plastic surgeon whose Christian name he knew to be Peter. Fortunately, there was only one possibility, so, using an access code he shouldn’t have, he then pulled up his personnel record, including a photograph. Not bad, he thought dejectedly. Blond, gray eyes, and nice tan. Who the bloody hell has a nice tan in London? Must spend hours in a tanning booth! He much preferred his own London pallor. And Molly liked curls, didn’t she? And dark hair?

Next, he ventured to another site to which he shouldn’t have access, using Lestrade’s pilfered code. He pulled up all the information he could find, including credit card activity. It seemed the good doctor enjoyed dining out. And at some very fine establishments, too! His favorite seemed to be Alain Ducasse, conveniently located at the Dorchester Hotel, which he seemed to frequent at least twice a month. Investigating further, Sherlock discovered that the man had, in fact, booked a room for that very evening! The detective slammed the laptop closed with an angry grunt, and hurried out of the flat.

Not long afterward, Sherlock Holmes was calmly explaining to the maitre d’ at the restaurant that an emergency had arisen, and he must speak immediate to Dr. Peter Chisolm. The maitre d’ pointed out the table where he could find Dr. Chisolm, and, as he approached, Sherlock was surprised to find the man alone.

“Dr. Peter Chisolm, I presume?”

“Yes, how can I help you?” The man replied, standing to greet his unexpected visitor. As he reached for the man’s hand, a look of recognition crossed his face. “Ah, you’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? I’ve heard a lot about you, sir. How can I help you? Are you on a case?”

“You can help me by unhanding my pathologist!”

“Who?”

“Dr. Molly Hooper! Where is she? What have you done with her?”

“I assure you, I have done nothing with her. Nothing at all!” The man almost sneered his answer. “I usually prefer my ladies to be graced with more obvious charms, but there is something about mousy Molly. All that cool exterior speaks of a more fiery interior, I thought. But it seems I was mistaken. I couldn’t get anywhere with her. The rumors are that you’ve had better luck, Mr. Holmes. Tell me,” he leaned in more closely, speaking in a confidential tone,” does our Molly have a more a more tempestuous side? Should I give her another go?”

Sherlock could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath as he remained close, but gave no consideration to this as his fist connected with the man’s nose. The last thing he noticed as he turned to walk away was the over-endowed redhead cuddling the surgeon to her ample breast and yelling insistently for someone to call the police. It seems, this kind of thing just wasn’t done at the Dorchester.

By the time Sherlock arrived back at the Watson’s home, Molly was there, in the nursery with Mary and Claire, oohing and aahing over a now placidly content infant. He could hear their voices from the sitting room as he put the various containers of Chinese food, from the place just around the corner, on the coffee table.

“Didn’t think you’d be back so soon, mate. We ordered pizza,” John said sarcastically.

“It’s a good thing I’m so fond of you, John, that I can forgive your little joke…”

“It was Mary’s idea. You know she likes to yank your chain, Sherlock. So, I take it you found out that Molly didn’t have a third, or fourth, date with whatshisname.”

“Peter Chisholm is his name, John. An overly tanned and underly charming arse, despite what Mary led me to believe. You know, I really have forgiven her for shooting me, John, but just lately I have been considering returning the favor…”

“Could you at least wait until Claire is out of nappies, chum. I hate changing those things!”

“Of course, anything to accommodate your sensibilities, John. I would hate to think that my sanity would come before your convenience!” Sherlock absent mindedly reached for a slice of now cold pizza, still listening to the happy chattering coming from the nursery. Within a moment or two, the women, joined them in the sitting room, Mary smirking in an off-putting manner as she moved toward the couch. “Ah, I see you’re back. We were wondering what took you so long.”

But, at the moment, Sherlock was more interested in a petit pathologist sitting across from him cuddling an infant and giggling. “Oh god, Mary, I feel just like a jealous little girl who envies her friend’s babydoll. She’s so adorable I want one of my own!”

Every eye turned to the detective as he said, “Fine, Molly, if that’s what you want. But there are complications, what with my family trust and everything. It would be more advisable to guarantee the child’s rights of inheritance by marrying first…”

John Watson was the first to regain the power of speech, saying with more than a bit of surprise, “Sherlock, did you just propose?”

“I suppose so, but we may have to table this discussion until a later time…” He was interrupted by a rather insistent knock on the door. “Ah, I believe my ride is here!”

As John went to answer the door, and Molly sat, still in shock on the couch, Sherlock continued speaking, primarily to Mary, “It may interest you to know that I found Dr. Peter the Perfect Plastic Surgeon, Mary. At the Dorchester Hotel. Interestingly, he was not with Molly, but a rather blatantly attractive redhead.”

“Oh, my god, what did you say to him?”

“Actually, Mary, he did most of the talking, right up until the time I broke his nose.”

This seemed to rouse Molly from her state of shock, “What?”

“Don’t worry about it too much, Molly. He definitely deserved it! And, being a plastic surgeon, I’m sure his colleagues will reconstruct him with more than sufficient competence. Professional courtesy and everything. He’ll probably look better than before!” He rose from his seat as DI Greg Lestrade entered the room. “Ah, Graham, I see they called you. Are you here to arrest me, then?”

“I’m afraid so, Sherlock. Dr. Chisolm is insisting on pressing charges…”

“I’m sure he’ll change his mind, once I point out that his wife may want to know what he was doing at the Dorchester with that rather buxom redhead. Do you need me in cuffs, or do you trust me enough to allow me some shred of dignity as I am taken into custody””

“Sherlock…”

“And may I say a proper goodbye to my fiance of almost a minute and a half?”

“Fiance? When did that happen?” Lestrade now looked almost as shocked as Molly “Molly? You mean Molly?”

“Brilliant deduction, Garrett. As I said, it happened just a moment ago. And, as I believe that John may object strenuously if Mary were to agree to marry me, that does only leave Molly, doesn’t it? Who, come to think of it, has not actually agreed as of yet.” Sherlock looked at his pathologist with a rather plaintive smile. “Are you going to give me an answer before I am whisked off into custody, Dr. Hooper?”

Molly rose to her feet and closed the distance between them in a flash, wrapping her arms around his neck, and snogging him as if he were about to leave to serve a twenty year sentence.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then, shall I?”, the detective said gently as he held her at arms length and smiled down at her. “We’ll talk about that other project of ours as soon as I get back, eh? I think we should start on it as soon as possible, don’t you? Claire can use a playmate, after all!”

Lestrade was pulling the consulting detective from the room, muttering to himself, “I always miss something!”, when Sherlock responded with a chuckle, “Don’t we all, Inspector, don’t we all!”


End file.
